


my bad for tripping on you

by Bellelaide



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M, england nt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 15:08:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19153492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bellelaide/pseuds/Bellelaide
Summary: “You got a problem finishing?” Harry said, looking at Eric with burning eyes.“Me? Nah,” Eric replied, willing his voice to stay steady. “You?”“Depends how good it is.”"Want to find out?”"Didn’t come here for a post match analysis,” Harry breathed, and that was all the confirmation Eric needed.





	my bad for tripping on you

Eric turned on the shower in his swanky hotel room in Madrid and collapsed down onto the floor under the spray. He let his forehead bump against his knees, and then he cried. 

 

God, it would’ve been nice to win. He wanted to, so badly. He wanted to shut the naysayers up with that big fat UCL trophy. He wanted those texts from his dad and his brothers that were nothing but key smashes and a series of emojis, dripping with pure pride. 

 

He really thought they might manage it, too, which was the worst part. Hope always bred eternal misery, he knew that, and yet they’d watched it slip away not even two minutes into the game. They didn’t even have the chance to enjoy it. 

 

So he let the water beat down over his head, down his back, and he cried it out against his legs until it didn’t feel like the end of the world anymore. Because it wasn’t, was the thing - they’d still done exceptionally well to come second, and there was so much more to come. If Eric was being honest, it would have almost felt cruel taking the title away from a side who’d played so remarkably all year. It was a game, it was sport - and the opposition probably deserved it. 

 

Eric wiped at his nose and got to his feet, uncapping his body wash and working it up into a lather over his stomach, under his arms, down his thighs. He already felt a bit better and he knew after a good sleep that the wounds would be well on their way to healing up properly. He could think about international break now, and beyond that maybe a holiday, maybe some time with his family. He could do with some time on the beach, by the pool, just... existing. 

 

Eric turned off the water and dried himself with the hotel provided towels, taking his time to fold them neatly and hang them carefully over the railing again. He pulled on a fresh pair of boxers and some shorts and flopped down on the big bed, answering a few texts until he could no longer fight sleep. Eric checked that his alarm was set and got under the sheets, flicking off the lights and stretching out on his stomach. He sighed into the duck feather pillow and let his mind drift off into unconsciousness. 

 

 

He managed ten minutes of sleep before someone started banging on his door. 

 

Eric sat up with a jolt, fumbling for the bedside lamp and peering down at his watch in confusion. He expected it was Dele looking for a condom, and he groaned in frustration - Dele had flown his ex all the way out to Spain and neither of them could remember to pack a fucking johnny? 

 

“Hold on!” Eric snapped at the door, voice cracking a bit on the last syllable. He rifled through his bag of toiletries and pulled out a Durex, not even bothering to remind Dele that it probably wasn’t going to fit him. Dele could find that out by himself. 

 

Eric marched to the door and yanked it open, thrusting the condom out into Dele’s face - except it wasn’t Dele, it was Harry Winks, and he was standing there looking at Eric with a stormy expression, one eyebrow raised at the extra large ribbed Eric was waving in his face. 

 

“Fuck - I thought you were Dele,” Eric said quickly, stuffing the condom into his pocket. “I uh - sorry about that.” 

 

Eric could feel his cheeks heating up. Things had been awkward between him and Harry for a while now, ever since Dele got pissed at the Christmas night out and told everyone about Eric’s crush. Harry had pulled Eric to the side and said ‘It’s not true, is it?’ And Eric, drunk himself and hoping maybe Harry would return his feelings, had focussed on Harry’s lips and said ‘Nah, it is. It’s true. I like you.’ He’d been half way to leaning in when Harry put a hand on his shoulder and said ‘Sorry, but I’m not looking for anything right now.’ And that was the sad, cruel, miserable end of that. 

 

Harry had largely avoided Eric, which was fine. It wasn’t fine, but it was fine - Eric got it. He wasn’t angry at Harry, he wasn’t even angry at Dele. The distance was probably a good thing, all said and done. But yet here Harry was, at Eric’s hotel room door, wearing an immaculate pair of white socks and a jumper that was too big for him and some shorts that were definitely too small. 

 

“Bit forward,” Harry said, and Eric really was blushing. 

 

“I said I thought - never mind. Are you aright?” 

 

“Can’t sleep,” Harry said with a shrug. “Can I come in?” 

 

It took Eric a beat too long to reply, shocked as he was, and Harry was beginning to say never mind, it’s late, I’ll go see if Sonny’s up, when Eric’s brain jumped back into gear. “NO. I mean, yeah. You can come in, whatever. I wasn’t sleeping anyway.” 

 

Harry looked at Eric suspiciously before sliding past him and padding into the room. Eric took a deep breath, glanced up and down the corridor, and closed the door. 

 

Harry was standing at the window, looking out over the lights of Madrid. “They’ll be out celebrating,” he said. “Somewhere out there right now.” 

 

Eric was standing lamely in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do, where to be. His limbs felt too big for his body, his mouth dry and useless. “Who?” 

 

Harry turned around and frowned at him. “What do you mean who?” 

 

Eric wanted to punch himself in the face. “Sorry. I’m just a bit -“ 

 

“You were asleep, weren’t you?” 

 

Eric was ready to deny it but he saw Harry’s eyes flicker down to the messy bed sheets and he knew it was futile. “I’d only just dozed off. It’s not a big deal.” 

 

Harry laughed and shook his head, looking back out at the view from the window. “You’re too nice for your own good.” 

 

“Rich coming from you.” 

 

“Could’ve been in a club getting my dick sucked right now,” Harry said in response, forehead tilting against the glass. “You could’ve been talking someone’s ear off about Brexit. Shame.” 

 

“Fuck off. I don’t talk about Brexit.” 

 

“You any good at sucking dick?” 

 

Suddenly all the air left the room and Eric’s mind was swimming. Had he heard that right? Surely not. Surely fucking - 

 

“Dele says you’re quite good. So -“ 

 

“That was one time, and it was a joke.” Eric interrupted quickly, too fucking quickly. His skin was tingling. 

 

“Alright, I’m not accusing,” Harry said, turning round and holding his hands up. “I don’t care what you and him have done.” 

 

Eric’s heart clenched a bit at that, cos he wanted Harry to care a little bit. He wanted him to be jealous, or possessive, or unhappy at the very least. Eric tried to gather himself up, shaking his head and lying down on the bed again, aiming for casual but knowing his hands were trembling. 

 

“That why you’re asking me about it?” 

 

Harry looked at Eric in a suspended moment of silence, a battle taking place behind his eyes. Eric wondered if he was going to leave, going to think better of whatever this was, and he’d be disappointed but almost relieved, too, almost grateful for the end to the awkwardness - but then Harry was pulling the sweatshirt off, over his head in one quick motion. 

 

“It’s fucking boiling in here, Dier. Why haven’t you got the air con on?” 

 

Eric dragged his eyes away from Harry’s dark nipples and focussed intently on his eyes. “The heat doesn’t bother me.” 

 

Harry moved then, stepping over Eric’s suitcase and getting on the bed, sitting down with his legs crossed and fiddling with one of his socks. “I wanted to win so, so badly,” he said quietly, voice losing a bit of the edge it had previously. “Feel like shit.” 

 

“You played really well, mate. Like, you were one of the better ones. It just wasn’t meant to be.” 

 

“Never seems to be our day, does it?” 

 

Eric sat and crossed his own legs, facing Harry. He wanted to reach out and touch him but he didn’t want to be creepy, didn’t want to overstep the boundaries, so he tucked his hands under his thighs and shrugged. “It’s all about the way you look at it. It was our day all that time we were in the title race for the prem, it was our day when we put City out the UCL. Maybe we have a finishing problem, I don’t know.” 

 

“You got a problem finishing?” Harry said, looking at Eric with burning eyes. 

 

“Me? Nah,” Eric replied, willing his voice to stay steady. “You?” 

 

“Depends how good it is.” 

 

Eric swallowed, hoping Harry couldn’t actually hear how the blood was rushing around his body at lightening speed. “Want to find out?” 

 

“Didn’t come here for a post match analysis,” Harry breathed, and that was all the confirmation Eric needed.

 

He pushed Harry backwards so that he was lying against the pillows, legs unfolding beautifully, dark skin and soft brown hair stark against the white sheets. Eric sat on his knees between Harry’s legs and let his fingers trail up the inside of his calves, over his knees, across his thighs. Harry wasn’t as little as they gave him stick for, muscly and compact and athletic. Eric dragged his eyes away from the curve of muscle sitting atop Harry’s knee and looked up at his face. His eyes were dark, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. His chest was heaving, moving so quickly it made Eric frown. He moved forward slowly, holding himself up with his arms either side of Harry’s shoulders and let his face hover close to Harry’s. 

 

“Relax,” he said, eyes darting between Harry’s. “Winksy? Relax.” 

 

Harry nodded and released his lip, letting out a big breath. He leaned in then and kissed Eric carefully, lips barely brushing Eric’s. Eric didn’t move, letting Harry set the pace, not wanting to spook him. Harry leaned back a bit, eyes opening up to look into Eric’s for only a second before he was coming back in, kissing Eric more forcefully, his tongue coming out to move against Eric’s lips. Eric kissed him back slowly, carefully, trying not to let his excitement show. This couldn’t be happening, it wasn’t fucking happening, except for how it was, Harry was really in his bed, underneath him, asking for this. 

 

Eric had fantasised more times than he cared to admit about how it’d be to kiss Harry, but never in his wildest dreams had he imagined it would be as sweet as this, as sexy. Harry kept on fucking squeaking against Eric’s mouth, arching up off the bed to get more, get closer, like maybe he’d been wanting this too. Eric’s brain was misfiring, producing nothing but white noise, fireworks, explosions. Harry Winks was pressing his tongue wetly against Eric’s, his nose sliding against Eric’s cheek. Eric was hard just off the noise of their saliva mixing alone. 

 

Eric pulled back a little bit and changed the angle, tilting his head the other way, and Harry was chasing it hungrily, needily, seemingly desperate to have his tongue back in Eric’s mouth. Eric let the kiss go on until his arms were shaking with the weight of holding himself up and he pulled away, stomach flipping when Harry whined at the loss. 

 

Eric kissed Harry’s collar bone and the flat plane at the centre of his chest, moving down to place wet kisses in a trail down his abs. He placed his mouth against the waist band of Harry’s ridiculous shorts and looked up at him for permission. Harry nodded and lifted his hips and Eric shuddered, putting his hands in the waistband and pulling. There was no sexier moment than when a person lifted their hips for you, he thought. Nothing hotter than that moment of consent, of eagerness, the silent ‘undress me’, ‘take my pants off’, ‘make me naked for you’. 

 

Harry’s legs came together as Eric pulled his clothes off and then spread again to accommodate him, and Eric didn’t want to stare but he couldn’t help it, utterly fascinated by the short crop of dark hair around Harry’s hard dick, a couple of freckles here and there on his groin - private freckles, the ones no one else knew about. Eric had to palm himself through his own shorts for a second, just because it was going to hurt if he didn’t, and he didn’t miss the way Harry’s cock twitched against his hip. 

 

Eric lay down on his stomach and leaned forward, his hips pressing down into the mattress as he licked an initial stripe up Harry’s shaft. Harry’s breath hitched and it was enough to spur Eric on, picking his dick up and closing his mouth around the tip. Eric’s eyes flickered to Harry’s face when he moaned, his eyebrows rising blissfully, mouth falling into an O shape. Eric sucked down and let his tongue flick a little bit before he went deeper, taking Harry further. 

 

Harry’s fingers came to scratch against Eric’s stubbly head and Eric took him deeper, relaxing his jaw and letting the head of Harry’s dick bump against the back of his throat. 

 

“Fuck,” Harry sighed, stomach muscles flexing and unflexing beautifully. “Fuck, Eric, that’s really nice.” 

 

Eric hummed and pulled back, almost all the way but keeping the tip in his mouth. He let his tongue circle round and round and then went back down, repeating this sequence in a rhythm that he knew worked. It didn’t take long for Harry’s little ‘uh’ noises to increase in intensity and speed, his hands fisting Eric’s sheets, his back coming off the mattress a bit. Eric ground his own hips down as he picked up the speed, using his hand to coax Harry the rest of the way, eager to know what his come tasted like once and for all - and then Harry was quietly whispering his name and he was coming in Eric’s mouth, streaks of it pooling on his tongue, bitter and salty but not unpleasant. Eric would be embarrassed by how much the taste of it turned him on if Harry’s dick wasn’t twitching uncontrollably in Eric’s mouth, trying to come long after there was nothing left. Eventually Harry was laughing exhaustedly and pushing Eric back, saying something about sensitivity. 

 

Eric’s head was spinning as he sat up on his knees, his own dick still impossibly hard, Harry’s smell and taste and sounds surrounding him so that he couldn’t think straight, couldn’t tell if it was Madrid or Moscow out the window, couldn’t tell if it was 1999 or 2019 - all he could think was Harry, Harry, Harry. 

 

“Eric? Eric Dier?” 

 

Eric snapped back into the moment, eyes meeting Harry’s, fingers moving away from where they’d gingerly been touching his lips. “Harry?” 

 

“Come here,” Harry said, accent thicker somehow. “Please come here.” 

 

Eric lay down on his side beside Harry, both their heads resting on the pillow, eyes locked together. Eric put his hand on Harry’s waist and squeezed, unsure of what exactly to say. 

 

“Can you tell me it’s going to be okay?” Harry said in a quiet voice, eyes blinking sleepily. “Tell me it doesn’t matter that we lost.” 

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Eric said, and he meant it. “It’s going to be okay. Fuck, Winksy, it’s going to be more than okay.” 

 

“Thanks for sucking me off,” Harry said, smiling as his eyes drooped. “Feel more tired now.” 

 

Eric was wide awake, electric, still so hard, but he said nothing. Instead he trailed his fingers up and down Harry’s back until he was sure that he had fallen asleep, breathing steadily. Eric got up off the bed quietly and crept to the bathroom, looking himself over in the mirror - he looked wrecked, his lips swollen and his cheeks pink. His eyes almost looked black, his pupils were so blown. Eric sorted himself out with a quick and unsatisfying wank, biting down on his hand to keep quiet. 

 

Eric got back into bed and turned off the light, lying in the darkness with Harry next to him. It took him a long time, but he eventually managed to fall back asleep. 

 

** 

 

Eric’s alarm woke him with a start. He picked up his phone and turned it off, rolling over to greet Harry. 

 

His heart sank when he saw an empty space in his bed, wrinkled sheets the only sign anyone else had been there. Eric sat up dejectedly and sighed, rubbing at his eyes. What did he expect, morning kisses and sleepy confessions and a shared shower? Eric laughed quietly at the absurdity of the idea. It’d been a stupid, unreciprocated consolation blow job. Nothing more. 

 

Eric packed his suitcase and got himself dressed with enough time to spare to get a coffee downstairs before the coach took them to the airport. Dele had stayed at Ruby’s hotel and would probably fly home with her and his friends, and a couple of the others had done the same thing, opting to spend the time with family rather than board the losers flight back to London. 

 

Eric blowed on his latte as the rest of his teammates emerged from the elevators, greeting each other with nods and quiet hellos. When everyone had gathered in the reception to board the busses Eric still hadn’t seen Harry, and he made his way to the girl in charge of overseeing player activity. 

 

“Scuse me? Not everyone’s here.” 

 

“Oh,” she said, looking around the room. “Who’s missing?” 

 

“Uh - Harry? Winks.” 

 

She looked down at a bit of paper she was holding and then back at Eric. “Harry’s already left. He got away earlier this morning.” 

 

“Oh right. My bad. Cheers,” he replied, hoping he didn’t look too disappointed. 

 

There was an uneasy feeling in the pit of his gut, a sense that things were not okay. He wished he hadn’t had the coffee now, not with how it was fuelling his sudden anxiety. Eric boarded the bus and put his bag down on the seat next to him, stuck in his earphones, and stared pointedly out the window. 

 

— 

 

Eric replayed the evening over and over again on the flight home, dissecting every move he made for something that could’ve made Harry retreat like this, but he came up with nothing particularly telling. Perhaps it’d been the act itself - Harry knew Eric liked him, and he’d gone to him in a moment of weakness, and now everything was going to be awkward because Harry’s feelings hadn’t changed.

 

Eric sent him a text saying ‘hey, can we talk?’ He followed that up with ‘it’s nothing serious, just want to know where your heads at. I’m not thinking we’re boyfriends now or whatever so u don’t need to worry’ but Harry never replied. 

 

There was only a little bit of down time before a car was outside Eric’s home to take him to St George’s Park. Eric sat down in the back of the sleek car, hoping international break would help to ease the tension he could feel clinging to his shoulder blades. 

 

** 

 

It was easier when he was back with Dele and Stones and Kane and the rest of them. They’d bonded impossibly after the World Cup, and the ones who’d been there had this special connection, this sense of knowing something no one else did. Eric felt at home with these boys. 

 

He pulled Dele aside that first night, falling down on his bed with his head in his hands, peeking out at Dele sheepishly. 

 

“What the fuck have you done?” Dele said, laughing. “You look rough, mate.” 

 

“I sucked Harry off after the champions league final,” Eric said in a rush, glad to have the words out there, no longer trapped inside him, the memory of that fucking hotel room tormenting him every time he closed his eyes. “And now he’s disappeared and he won’t answer my texts.” 

 

“Just to be clear - Harry Winks?” 

 

Eric looked out from behind his fingers and peered at Dele in disgust. “Yes, Harry Winks, you sick fuck - what do you think, me and Kane are messing about when his kids are in bed? Jesus, Del -“ 

 

“I’m just making sure!” 

 

“Well, yes, of course it was Winksy. And now he’s disgusted and he’s not speaking to me.” 

 

“I thought you were over that crush you had on him?” Dele said, gently, sitting down beside Eric and patting him on the head sadly. “That’s really shit, buddy. I’m sorry.” 

 

“I’m not over it,” Eric sighed, trying and failing not to pout. “Clearly.” 

 

Dele was silent for a moment, scratching soothingly at Eric’s hair, and then he said “Was he... was he into it?” 

 

Eric sat up like he’d been burned, staring at Dele with his mouth open. “You didn’t just ask me that.” 

 

“I’m just trying to figure out why he’s gone quiet now -“ 

 

“Yes, he was fucking into it,” Eric hissed, feeling his cheeks redden. “He came to me, he asked for it, he was hard, he enjoyed it. He fell asleep cuddling me. I’m not a fucking rapist.” 

 

“I didn’t say you were,” Dele snapped back. “But it’s not like Harry to just ignore someone, especially not you. I’m just trying to work out what he’s thinking.” 

 

“What do you mean especially not me?” 

 

Dele rolled his eyes. “He dotes on you, doesn’t he? Always trying to please you. You already know that, so stop fishing.” 

 

“I don’t know that. What if he just came over because he wants to please me? Because he thinks that what I wanted after the loss? What if -“ 

 

“If he was trying to please you, wouldn’t he have gone down on you instead of the other way around? Kid’s hardly got a big ego, he’s not one to present his own dick like a present.” 

 

Eric knew Dele was right, but he’d never ever say so. He sighed again, dramatically, and stared up at the ceiling. 

 

“Honestly Diet, he’s probably just at home sulking cos he never got the call up. He’ll text you, so stop worrying.” 

 

Eric went back to his own room shortly after and lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling and feeling sad thinking about Harry at home in London, sad that he was left out of the squad, in turmoil over his sexuality, utterly bereft and all alone. 

 

** 

 

It turned out, Eric learned the following morning, that Harry Winks was not in fact at home crying into his pillows, but on a yacht in Dubai with his friends, practically fucking glowing too, covered in new freckles brought on by the sun. Eric gaped at the photos on his phone, sat still on the edge of his bed. 

 

He felt like a mug for worrying that Harry was sad and lonely; felt like an even bigger mug for being ghosted. He dug around the Harry Winks update pages on Instagram for a few moments, desperate for any content he could find. There was one video of Harry laid out on a boat singing Drake and Eric threw his phone across the room when he saw it, suddenly very upset. 

 

** 

 

Before they boarded the plane to Porto, Eric saw new photos of Harry and some fans. He was happy and relaxed, well rested and tanned. Eric turned his phone off and pulled his hood over his face, hoping no one would speak to him for the duration of the flight. 

 

** 

 

In the hours before the game, Eric checked the update pages again, knowing full well he was rubbing salt in a wound. There was a photo of Harry in the pool with a fan, looking unbelievably good - the photo took his breath away. Harry looked so like himself that Eric’s heart stuttered. He was letting his beard grow in, wearing jewellery, showing the slightest peek of white Calvin Kleins against his tanned hips. 

 

Eric continued scrolling despite the voice in his head telling him to stop, to put his phone down. That was how he saw the video of Harry in conversation with some girl, leaning into each other’s space, her in a skimpy bikini, him emanating more sauce than Eric had ever seen in his life. 

 

Harry was clearly tipsy, holding a drink and dancing at some kind of pool party. Eric had to go and find a quiet room somewhere and let his head rest against the wall before he could go out there and be in public. 

 

** 

 

England lost spectacularly. Eric didn’t even get to play, and his disappointment was consuming. He watched sadly as the lads started filtering off the pitch dejectedly, the sound of the fans no longer jubilant and cocky. He was about to go over and pull Dele into a hug when his phone started vibrating in his pocket. 

 

Eric pulled it out and nearly dropped it again - Harry was phoning him. He took off down the tunnel, ignoring everyone who spoke to him. Eric pushed open the changing room doors and sat down heavily at his station, taking a deep breath and accepting the call. 

 

“Winksy?” 

 

“Helllloooooooooo,” came Harry’s voice. “Hellloooooooo?” 

 

“Harry? Can you hear me?” 

 

“Loud and clear captain,” Harry said gleefully. “You’re not captain of anythin’ but you should be, I reckon.” 

 

He was drunk, Eric knew instantly. “Y’alright, Harry?” 

 

“What the fuck was that game? Load of shit. Shocking midfield. Should’ve subbed you in and took that Irish republican lad off, that’s what I think.” 

 

“I’ll let Gareth know your thoughts.” 

 

“Can’t believe you’re in Portugal without meeee,” Harry whined. “Should’ve waited to bring me home until I could actually go, shouldn’t you?” 

 

“What?” Eric’s stomach twisted at the connotations, and he jumped when Stones pushed into the room, looking around wildly. He stared at Eric for a second and then opened his mouth to speak but Eric cut him off, not wanting to miss what Harry was saying. He mouthed ‘Winks is pissed’ and was pleased when John shut up and sat down, busying himself with his laces. 

 

“Don’t suck any dicks tonight, will you? Don’t suck Dele off if he comes knocking.” Harry slurred into Eric’s ear. 

 

Eric’s fingers dug into his thigh and he swallowed, hoping John hadn’t heard that. “You don’t want me to?” 

 

Harry was quiet for a beat, then he said “No, I don’t,” his voice so small Eric wasn’t sure he’d heard it right. 

 

“Then why - why haven’t you text me back?” 

 

Harry fell silent, and Eric had to check the call was still connected. He heard the sound of a door opening a closing on the other end of the line and an accent like Harry’s telling him to cheer up and get outside. “I’ve gotta go,” Harry said suddenly. “I’ll speak to you later.” 

 

“Harry -“ Eric started, but he was gone. Eric put his phone back in his pocket and attempted to listen to Gareth talk, his mind swimming with Harry’s words. 

 

— 

 

Eric didn’t hear from Harry again the next day. A photo emerged of Harry at dinner and then another grainy video of him dancing at yesterday’s pool party, but otherwise there was nothing. 

 

The world, for the most part, was still turning. Everyone got to work in training for the third place play off, and Eric decided to use the game as a focus for all his unspent energy. 

 

He ate dinner with Dele and did his best not to think about Harry - what he was doing, who he was with. The weight of his dick on Eric’s tongue. The smell of the skin on his inner thighs. The flick of his - 

 

“WILL YOU STOP FUCKING IGNORING ME?!” 

 

Eric and Dele looked over to where John was standing with his hands slapped down on the table, leaning furiously into Jordan Pickford’s space. The whole canteen had gone silent, everyone observing what looked suspiciously like John having a break down. 

 

“God, the Northerners are ridiculous,” Dele muttered, shaking his head and turning his attention back to his chicken. 

 

Eric didn’t reply, watching as Jordan got up from the table calmly and walked out, John hot on his heels. 

 

“Whatever it is, they better sort it by Sunday,” he said, worry creeping into his mind as he thought about how he and Harry would play together in future, or if they’d be able to at all. 

 

** 

 

They won third place, which was the least they could do. Eric even got to captain for a bit, and he came off the pitch at full time with a delicious excitement curling in his stomach, ready and waiting for Harry’s next call. 

 

The call never came, however - not that night, not the following morning as they loaded up into the jet that would fly them back to England, not as Eric said his goodbyes and got into the car that would take him home. Eric looked dejectedly out the window at gloomy London as they drove, the grey sky reflecting his mood. 

 

Eric let himself into his house and was greeted by his dog. He sat down on the floor and petted him for a while, giving him plenty of good tummy scratches. After a bit he pulled himself up and got a drink, checking in his fridge - his meals for the week had been delivered, his mail sorted by his house keeper. He filed through the letters, dumping junk mail in the shredding pile, and took himself upstairs for a bath. 

 

** 

 

There was nothing from Harry the following day, or the one after that. The update pages had gone cold too, recycling old photos that Eric had seen a thousand times.

 

He couldn’t even enjoy having a wank to the memory of the night in Madrid, not when all that led to was the thought that Harry had been so repulsed by what they’d done he’d run as far away as he could get. 

 

Eric tried phoning him after a couple more days had gone by - a moment of weakness, of madness, a moment of desperation. The call just rang and rang and rang, until eventually Eric had to hang up. 

 

Maybe it was time to move on. Harry couldn’t be clearer, that was obvious. He’d tried it, he hadn’t enjoyed it, he was making that clear now. Eric needed to move on with his life. 

 

** 

 

How was he supposed to move on when he’d have to see Harry and his stupid freckles and his stupid bambi eyes every fucking day? 

 

** 

 

How was he supposed to move on when he knew what Harry sounded like when he came? 

 

** 

 

Dele turned up at Eric’s door after a week of moping and dragged him out for dinner. They went to a swanky restaurant just outside of Tooting that Dele knew. It was the kind of place that served 12 courses of tiny portions, and Eric was astonished Dele even liked the place. 

 

“Thought you only ate chicken nuggets and chips?” Eric joked, taking a sip of the Riesling the waitress had poured him. “Don’t think they’ll be pleased with you sticking ketchup on their tartare.” 

 

“Shut up,” Dele laughed, kicking him under the table. “I don’t just eat chicken nuggets. I’ll eat macaroni nowadays, too.” 

 

They ate and laughed and Eric felt a bit better being out in company rather than sitting on his own and letting his mind run riot. Dele got serious as the desserts came out, crossing his legs under the table and leaning forward. 

 

“You heard from Harry, then?” 

 

Eric shook his head. “No. You?” 

 

“Yeah, I have,” Dele said uncertainly. “He text me yesterday, asking if I knew any club reps in Ibiza.” 

 

“Ibiza?!” 

 

“Apparently so,” Dele shrugged. “Dunno what’s going on with him these days.” 

 

“What if he never speaks to me again?” 

 

Dele looked at Eric with what could only be described as pity. “I don’t think he’ll never speak to you again. Even if he is being a total fruit cake right now. And even if he doesn’t, fuck him. You’ve got me and everyone else. There’s plenty other fish in the sea.” 

 

Eric tried to smile. “Love you, Del.” 

 

“Love you too, diet.” 

 

 

Eric spent the rest of the night in bed searching for flights to Ibiza. He only realised how deranged he was being at the last minute, and he closed his phone up in his underwear drawer in order to avoid any more temptation. 

 

** 

 

The following day he had a wank imagining it was Jan’s dick he’d sucked, just because he could, and that was plenty sexy, and maybe he could turn his attentions to someone else in the new season. 

 

** 

 

Jan Vertonghen would never go for him in a billion years. Someone else, then. 

 

** 

 

Eric was fast asleep when the sound of the stairs creaking startled him awake. He’d always been a light sleeper, but it’d been worse after the World Cup, when their profiles had sky rocketed and the threat of overzealous fans (or enraged haters) became very real. He’d had the best security money could buy installed, but still - those worries never fully disappeared. 

 

Eric usually shut the dog in the kitchen at night and he sleepily told himself that he’d probably left the door open accidentally, as distracted as he’d been the last few days. He pulled the covers over his head and fell back asleep, content that his alarm system would’ve alerted him to any uninvited guests. 

 

The next thing he knew, someone was getting into his bed. 

 

He woke with a start on feeling the heat of another body sliding under his sheets and he leapt into action, jumping up and grabbing at the body. 

 

“Oh my god - OW!” 

 

“What are you -“ 

 

“It’s me, Eric! You’re going to break my arm!” 

 

Eric sat back, unsure if he was dreaming, and fumbled with the bedside lamp. The room was bathed in orange light - and there, rubbing sadly at his previously bent bicep, was Harry. 

 

“How did you -“ 

 

“Dele gave me his key. I wanted to surprise you - fucking hell, I’m going to bruise after that.” 

 

“Harry! You can’t just get into people’s beds in the middle of the fucking night!” 

 

“I’m sorry!” Harry squeaked. “I thought it’d be nice.” 

 

Eric looked at him incredulously. He was only wearing his boxers, somehow, and he was all tan skin and freckles and soft unstyled hair and big brown eyes and - 

 

“What fucking planet are you on, Harry?” 

 

“I’m sorry I disappeared,” he said, getting on his knees and crawling forward into Eric’s space. “I just needed time -“ 

 

“You couldn’t have texted me that?” Eric replied, his brain telling him to move back, to kick Harry out, to push him away, but his body remaining still, letting Harry’s hands come to sit on his thighs, his face getting perilously close. “You didn’t think I deserved an explanation?” 

 

“Please don’t be angry at me,” Harry breathed, his stupid big brown eyes on Eric’s mouth. “I wasn’t thinking straight.” 

 

“You’ve got a beard.” 

 

Harry frowned and touched his own jaw tenderly. “Guess I do, yeah.” 

 

“There were videos of you and different girls. You get any?” 

 

“You been keeping tabs on me?” 

 

Harry smelled a little bit like artificial air, like he’d got off the plane and come straight here. Eric wanted to get his own smell all over him, fuck him until he was his, so that next time he disappeared for three weeks, he wouldn’t be able to forget so easily. 

 

Eric didn’t answer Harry’s question. He kissed him instead, because he wanted to, because he needed to. He needed to feel Harry under him, know he wasn’t dreaming this. Harry was warm and pliant, crawling into Eric’s lap easily, legs parting as readily as they always did, fingers holding tight to Eric’s shoulders. Eric inhaled deeply as he lifted Harry and lay himself back against the pillows, letting Harry straddle him. 

 

“You can’t fucking do that,” Eric said after a few moments, breathy and faint. “You can’t do that to me, Harry.” 

 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, hands either side of Eric’s face. “I didn’t mean to stress you out.” 

 

Eric pulled Harry’s waist down against his, ran his hands up Harry’s sides, trailed the backs of his fingers down Harry’s calves. He wanted to be touching him everywhere - he couldn’t get enough, couldn’t be satisfied. 

 

“I thought of you all the time,” Harry said, barely a whisper. “I didn’t even - that woman I was talking to the in video, she came up to me and started talking about fucking Arsenal. She was ancient, Eric, honestly -“ 

 

“It’s fine,” Eric said, fingers scratching against the waistband of Harry’s boxers. “It doesn’t matter now.” 

 

“Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about what we did,” Harry said, kissing the corner of Eric’s mouth. “Wanna return the favour.” 

 

Eric shuddered, his dick reaching full hardness underneath Harry. “It’s late,” Eric said feebly, like he was really going to stop Harry from going down on him in this life or the next. “You must be exhausted.” 

 

Harry grinned at him, leaning in and kissing his neck gently. “Wanna get you off more than I wanna sleep.” 

 

Eric looked at this guy that he had a whole lapful of, all smooth skin and glittering eyes and unlimited potential, and he couldn’t help but feel like he was going to burst into tears with the overwhelming emotion of it. 

 

“If I let you, are you going to be here in the morning?” 

 

Harry stopped smiling then, sitting back and looking at Eric seriously. “I won’t ever run again. I like you, like, a lot. Even if I’m terrified of the size of your cock, I really like you.” 

 

Eric couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re terrified of what?!” 

 

Harry wriggled around a bit as if to prove his point. “You’re... well hung.” 

 

“Nothing to be scared of, Winksy. You can take it. To dare is to do.” 

 

“Oh. Now I’m really horny.” 

 

Eric laughed again as Harry began moving down his body, his eyes glinting deviously. Eric shifted his hips, getting lower, and then he paused, fingers tilting Harry’s chin upwards. 

 

“Harry?” 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

Eric swallowed. “Can you tell me it’s going to be okay?” 

 

Harry‘s lips parted in surprise, something soft flashing behind his eyes. He crawled back up Eric’s body and kissed him hard and slow. “Fuck, Dier. It’s going to be more than okay.” 

 

Eric believed him, because there was nothing else for it. 

 

Everything would be okay, because it couldn’t not be. 

 

“You can suck my dick, now. If you want.” 

 

Harry smiled and looped his fingers in Eric’s waistband. “It’d be my pleasure.” 

 

They hadn’t won the UCL, and they hadn’t won the Nation’s League. But they had each other, and Eric knew that was the real prize. That was all that really mattered, in the end.


End file.
